


These Hands (Had to Let It Go Free)

by Vacilando



Series: This Love (Left a Permanent Mark) [1]
Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Character Growth, Eggsy Sunday Post, Fix-It, M/M, Slow Build, Symbolism everywhere, Taylor swift is the greatest enabler, checking off all the tropes, flower symbolism, harry hart lives so f you, obligatory fandom trope, secret admirer kinda?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2015-04-04
Packaged: 2018-03-21 06:33:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3681621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vacilando/pseuds/Vacilando
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He does not only recognize this man, he knows him. Harry knows the way he laughs and the way he would smile cheekily at Harry. He knows the way this man say his name, all rough cockney accent and confidence. Harry knows him better than Harry knows himself but none of that matter because Harry does not remember his name. </p>
<p>Nor is he sure if this man is real.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Hands (Had to Let It Go Free)

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by and written to This Love by Taylor Swift because she is the greatest enabler of all. There are links for visual aid, so have fun with that. With this, I have popped my Hartwin!amnesia cherry along with flower language, apparitions, and pining!Harry cherries.

All my love,

Kallie, Kyra, Hollie

This is for you.

 

* * *

 

Harry Hart leads a simple life in Canterbury, Kent. Living alone above his little shop, in his even littler apartment, he is content. Every morning, he wakes up to the sound of the birds chirping outside and the soft pitter patter of early workers making their way to their respective buildings. He gets out of his bed to the sounds of his neighbours opening their own shops, their little twinkling bells singing through the quiet of the morning. He makes his tea in the golden amber light of dawn, his eyes taking in the pink hues of the sky and the town’s silhouette against the myriad of colours. He eats his breakfast at the window seat, his back pressed flush against luxurious down throw pillows that are covered with hand-sewn quilt, a novelty that he allowed himself for comfort. The scones are warm and the fruit compote is fresh, and he lets his head rests briefly against the window pane.

 

The coolness of the pane sooths him, calms him, grounds him. It waters down his dreams somewhat and it pushes them to the far back of his mind like the rushing of a river. The sounds of vibrant hellos and how do you dos drifts up to the apartment and Harry taps his forehead once against the glass, a reminder to collect himself and prepares for the day. The remaining scones on the plate are set aside on the small coffee table by the fireplace with the day’s choice of tea cup.

 

Harry sheds his night clothes and carefully folds them, placing them neatly on top of his dresser. He goes through the motions of getting ready for the day and by the end of it, he stands in front of his floor length mirror, his bed in the background and his tired eyes staring back at him.

 

There is a feeling in his chest that he seems to not be able to shake for the longest time and as always, the feeling is intensified in the mornings. There is an ache, an emptiness and the feelings of being incomplete. Here he stands with his eyes taking in every detail of himself from the suit to the hair to the shoes to the cufflinks and to the glasses he places on his nose. By all accounts he is complete and impeccable. And yet, the feeling that he is naked and missing something tugs constantly at his consciousness.

 

The dreams do not help.

 

* * *

 

He methodically prepares his little antique shop for the day by going through his accounts and inventories at the till. He runs through the numbers and the shipping of his customer’s orders. He types the appropriate emails to notify suppliers and makes the necessary phone calls to the delivery service he subscribes to. The rich oak table that serves as the till and his work desk is carefully wiped down and the process of cleaning the delicate vintage tea cups on his shelves begins at 6.50am sharp. By 9am he is by his shop door and signs the delivery for the week and by 11.20am, he is settled on his stool behind his desk as he goes through the news on his laptop.

 

He receives three customers before lunch and he sells four sets of tea cups, including one 1820s porcelain with hand painted peach ribbon detailing that he’s sorry to see leave his shop. By 1.05pm, he flips the sign on his front door to ‘Lunch’, locks up the shop and takes a step back to consider the charming deep red building in front of him. He wonders if perhaps he shall receive a pleasant surprise today, what with it being the middle of the month already.

 

Harry smiles wryly to himself and hooks his umbrella over his arm. He smiles at Julia who owns the flower shop next door and the woman waves him over to place a boutonniere through his lapel. “Perhaps today would be the day,” She says, the laughter lines on her face deepened in an encouraging smile.

 

“Perhaps it will be.” Harry tilts his head and kisses her weathered cheeks. “Thank you, Julia.”

 

He turns and makes his way down the cobbled streets with his umbrella swinging slightly in the crook of his elbow, and for a strange moment he worries that the swinging would accidentally activate the smoke screen. It takes him another moment to shake that thought out of his mind and he wonders if perhaps he has been reading too much Ian Fleming lately.

 

The boutonniere, he learns, is made of iris.

 

* * *

 

He comes back from lunch at precisely 2.15pm.

 

At 2.17pm, he finds a postcard tucked neatly at the corner of his glass paned door and as always, a small stargazer lily is taped carefully on top of the card. Harry wiggles the postcard free from its perch with no small amount of care, watching the lily with trepidation when it wobbles. He has done this more times than he cares to remember now, but still he fears that he would ruin the card and the flower.

 

Once he is safely tucked in the warmth of his shop, Harry peels off the tape and brings the pink and white lily to his nose as he examines the postcard. Like its predecessors, the card is an authentic vintage with its 1950s design. The almost faded yellow of the background makes the red cursive writing pop out to Harry while the block lettering that spells [Niagara Falls](http://s.ecrater.com/stores/17876/48ebd44632833_17876n.jpg) are filled with shots of the place of origin.

 

Harry flips the postcard around and sighs.

 

Empty, as always.

 

The postcard joins the rest of its brethren on the wall behind his work desk before he takes the stairs two at a time to his living space with the lily in hand. Harry walks up to his bookshelf and selects a thick phonebook that is already lined with parchment paper. He kisses the lily, his lips lingering on the petals before he places the delicate little thing in between the pages.

 

Images of a bright smile and the sound of a delighted laughter fill his mind as he pushes the volume back into its place. And just as fast as they appear, they are gone in the next second. Harry Hart puts his right hand over his breast and presses, willing the aching feeling of incompleteness to go away.

 

* * *

 

On an unremarkable day in September 2017, Harry is startled from his reading when a customer walks in through his shop doors in a harried flurry of sweater and a dark jacket. Harry’s wooden floor echoes the man’s footsteps as he surveys the shelves upon shelves of tea cups with their saucers and matching teapots. The man’s hands are in his pockets, his face is pensive and his glasses glinted in the late evening light. Dust motes sparkles in the sliver of sunlight that cuts through the display window and they flurry in the man’s wake; Oxfords tapping away on the floor.

 

The wooden floor falls away from under the Oxfords and Harry sees clean white tiles and a different pair of Oxfords, smaller in size but similar in design. He staggers a little when he stands to greet his customer, the bright flashes of –imagination? Memories?- wrecking havoc in the recess of his mind. The white tiles in his mind give way to lush carpet and the Oxfords are replaced by Nike trainers, as gaudy in design as they are impressive. His head pounds and he stifles a groan.

 

“Good evening,” Harry straightens and buttons his suit jacket. “May I help you with anything?”

 

“Yes, yes good evening.” Scottish brogue and a voice thick like molasses fills the area and Harry –very briefly-sees flashes of an exasperate eyeroll and fond rebuke about keeping his glasses safe. “I’m afraid that I don’t quite know what I’m looking for yet.”

 

“Ah,” Harry smiles, “Practical or decorative?”

 

The man gives it a thought and returns Harry’s smile, albeit hesitantly. He cocks his head to a shelf to the right, where the plainer tea cups are on display. “Practical, but a little bit decorative; something decent to serve tea with to my co-workers.”

 

“Excellent, then we have a point to work on.” Harry walks around the desk, barely catching himself on the edge when the pounding in his head intensifies. He casts a glance at the man who stands with his body angled towards Harry, but his eyes are roaming the displays. For that, Harry is grateful.

 

He stands a respectful distance from the man and begins to assess his collection. He dismisses anything much too floral or much too delicate, pauses a heartbeat or two on the ones with designs on the inner rim and the ones with gold detailing on the saucers. Nothing strikes him as suitable for the man who waits patiently to his left. Harry feels, for some reason unknown to him, that this man would appreciate subtlety, something not too extravagant. His mind tells him that this man, despite his stern face and strong stance, would take good care of the wares.

 

Harry begins to reach out for a set when he falters momentarily, an almost familiar voice fills his mind and it tells him not to _touch my  things for the love of god, Harry you don’t know what it’ll do, they’re prototypes you idiot._

 

“Are you alright?”

 

Harry almost jerks his hand but smoothly covers the reaction with a gentle shake of his head, already delicately picking up the clean white porcelain. “Oh, yes of course. I was just thinking that perhaps this would be to your liking.”

 

The set he chooses to offer to the man is an [E. Wedgwood Ironstone](http://www.antiquesandteacups.com/assets/images/4637.jpg), plain white ceramic with molded basket weave pattern on the saucer and the side of the cup. A blue rose is hand-painted on the inner side of the cup, its medium and tasteful. The same pattern is also painted in the middle of the saucer, on the indent where its paired cup would be placed.

 

“This was made in between 1950s and 60s, used but in excellent condition with no signs of wear.” Harry murmurs reverently as he places the set delicately on a small circular coffee table in the middle of the shop. His customer stands to his side, close enough for him to smell his cologne. The scent is something familiar and comforting but serves to make the pounding in his head that much stronger.

 

He gestures to the set and watches the bald man pick up the tea cup first, tilting it from side to side and studying the blue rose. Little noises of approval escapes him and Harry’s chest warms in satisfaction at his selection. He can just imagine this man drinking from this particular set whist he sits in his organized chaos of an office, converted from an old drawing room in a mansion out on the English countryside.

 

Harry closes his eyes and resists the temptation to rubs his aching chest.

 

“Bloody good choice, this is.” The words flood through Harry’s ears and he comes back from the lush green grounds of a mansion where a figure in a siren suit runs around with a pug at his heels. “This will do nicely, thank you.”

 

The smile that Harry gives the man is strained. “I’ll wrap this up for you then.”

 

Silence reign supreme as Harry carefully boxes up the set at his desk whilst the other man stands at the corner of the rich oat with a sleek white mobile in his hand. Harry’s side glances tell him that the man is absorbed in the little device, his eyebrows pulled down in a frown as the screen is reflected on his glasses. The stern line of his lips is pulled tighter and tighter as he scrolls the device, and Harry has the feeling that he is about to explode into an impressive tirade if he was anywhere else but here.

 

He can just hear it now. The Scottish brogue wrapping words around sharp tongue and chewing out the field operatives because _which part of highest level of discretion don’t you get, Lance? For god’s sake man, control your twice damned trigger finger and at least try not blow up the hideout next time—_

 

“James.”

 

The name comes out of his mouth just as he ties off the string around the box. The silence that follows is not the same comforting silence as before. It is heavy with anticipation and for the life of him, he can’t begin to fathom what it is that he’s waiting for. It feels like he is standing in front of a double oak door that he’s been trying to open for ages and ages and now the door rattles like it is about to crack open but—nothing.

 

Harry feels that there is an entire life behind those doors with people he knows and love, both old and new, and he’s being kept from it. He feels that there is someone behind those closed doors waiting for him.

 

“I beg your pardon?” The man is losing his grip on his mobile as he stares at Harry. “Did you- a name- what was it?”

 

“I-,” Harry licks his lips, his hands cupping the boxed tea set. “Terribly, terribly sorry sir; but I didn’t say anything. Perhaps you heard someone from outside.”

 

Dark eyes study Harry from behind thick lenses and they glint with too many emotions that shift in breakneck speed and too vague for Harry to pick one. Harry absently notes that the sun is beginning its descent from the sky by the sudden orange light that pours into his shop, bathing everything in amber and making the sad, almost disappointed look on the man’s face all the more prominent.

 

And just as quick as it appeared, the face smoothed into polite blankness.

 

“Yes, of course.” The bald head inclined in agreement, the mobile is carefully slipped into dark trousers. “And how much would that be?”

 

The man pays and the package is exchanged with no incident. Harry walks his satisfied customer to the door, running a steady commentary on the weather and business in Canterbury. It is when the man is about to leave that Harry feels the ache back in his chest and the pounding in his head. He feels –as ridiculous as it is- that if he is to ever see the back of this man, he will collapse. As though the idea of this man turning his back on Harry is a symbolic representation that Harry will never get better, will never open that door, will never apologize to the person waiting for him from beyond.

 

“Love the postcard wall, by the way,” the man mutters as he steps out onto the cobbled streets. “And take care of yourself, Harry.”

 

Harry nods, waves, and closes the door behind him.

 

He never told the man his name, though.

 

* * *

 

On a Thursday a week and a half after he sold the E. Wedgewood set, Harry stumbles down the stairs to his shop at precisely 6.50am as always. His frames are pushed up to nestle in his hair as he pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to ease the pain. The throbs that he feels throughout his head makes him wish that he could cut through the raised healed scar on the far side of his left temple and poke his brain, if only to quiet it down.

 

It isn’t until 8am that Harry manages to drag himself from his stool and walk over to the door to pull up the blinds and flip the OPEN sign. It is then that he notices the square shape of a postcard lodged in its customary place in between the glass pane and the wooden frames of his door.

 

Harry frowns.

 

The biting cold wind of autumn creeps into the warm vacuum of the shop when he opens the door to properly examine the offending item. He slides his frames back onto his nosebridge and tuts when he sees the sweat of condensations on the surface of the vintage postcard and beading on the petals of his new flower. He reaches for the card, intent on rescuing the piece of souvenir when he realizes that the flower is different.

 

When the postcard is released, Harry examines the dusty pink flower with its darker spots running down one of the five petals. He removes the tape carefully as he re-enters the shop and twirls the soft green stem in between his thumb and forefinger. Harry’s movements are automatic as he checks the [Bulgarian card](http://suitcasesweethearts.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/03/dsc_0883_e1.jpg) for messages only to be let down like so many times before. Nevertheless, he carefully tapes the postcard to his wood panelled wall and adjusts it to align neatly with the rest.

 

His steps are slower this time as he makes his way up to his apartment, the flower still twirled lazily in between his fingers. The fabric of his favoured dark navy suit whispers as he settles in the window seat with the flower and a flower encyclopaedia in his lap. He traces the words _To Galahad, from Tristan_ written in cursive letterings on the dedications page and it brings back the memory of him discovering the book on the shop’s desk when he moved in almost two years ago. It also, brings back the memory of him being forced to sit on the floor of his new abode with the book abandoned on the desk when a sudden onslaught of _something_ flits violently fast through his mind.

 

The double doors that Harry constantly finds himself trying to break open rattles teasingly when he recalls the ghost of a slap between his shoulder blades; the contact giving him the feeling of camaraderie, of easy friendship and fondness that rivals with exasperation. His mouth moves to form a word, a name at the tip of his tongue, but nothing comes out. As the oak doors settle back into its cold silence, Harry swears he can hear a well loved voice calling his name with a hint of Cockney.

 

Loud childish laughter from outside brings Harry back from his trance and he lets his head fall back heavily against the down throw pillows. There is an unexplainable feeling of exasperation in him and a resounding guilt when he looks down to the flower that he’s twirling between his fingers. The dainty thing feels like an accusation of sorts, like someone is trying to speak to him through it and they are asking him _why won’t you remember?_

 

\--

The flower, as it turns out, is an azalea.

 

\--

* * *

 

It is one month to Valentine’s Day of 2018 and Harry Hart finds himself taking tea with Julia by the large stained glass window of her shop. The symphony of colours rain down on the charming table that Julia had set for them both. The reds, oranges, blue, pinks, and green are like jewels on the sweet pink tablecloth and Harry sees another afternoon, in another place and time where he sits with a plain white china tea cup in his hand as he laughs at someone who sits in front of him.

 

He cannot, for the life of him, put a face to the person or to recall any sort of features at all. But his heart is quick to remind him that he feels something for them. He feels something deep and profound, something like protectiveness and pride, but underneath it all he also feels guilt, disappointment and abandonment.

 

The last of those emotions is enough to force him back into reality.

 

“So how many of those pretty flowers have you got stashed in your phonebook, then?” Harry shakes his head fondly at the woman who winks playfully at him as she pours the tea for them both. The rich scent Earl Grey permeates his senses and Harry finds his shoulders relaxing against the rattan chair. Between the tea and the heady perfume of Julia’s flowers, Harry is –for the moment- content.

 

“I think I might have to get myself a new phonebook, Julia.” Harry takes a serious tone and levels a look at Julia’s lovely face. “The two that I currently have in my possession is absolutely stuffed with stargazer lilies and other sorts of flowers.”

 

“Oi now, I don’t think you’ve ever mentioned anything about these new flowers.” Julia clicks her tongue and gently slaps his wrist. “That’s very rude of you, Mr. Hart.”

 

Harry dips his head in apology and picks up his cup, chuckling at the design. It is another [Wedgwood](http://www.antiquesandteacups.com/thumbnail.asp?file=assets/images/7083.jpg&maxx=300&maxy=0), but not one that Harry has in his stock. The cup and saucer is sleek in design but grainy to the touch; and the white embossed silhouette of Charles and Diana stands stark against the blue jasperware. He recalls Julia telling him that the commemorative set was a gift from her husband as a joke, but as evident by the pristine state of the wares, it is a gift that the darling woman cherishes even after all these years.

 

Unfortunately, Terrence Rodrick is just another name in the list of deceased victims from V-Day three years ago. Like most of the rest of the world, the man died in the hands of his loved one and Julia’s and Terrence’s son Adam never managed to come back from the trauma.

 

“Oh whoever it is that’s been leaving me those gifts have really up their ante.” Harry sips his tea, his eyes playful behind the dark frames. “It’s a learning process for me as well. I’ve used the blasted encyclopaedia more times this month than I’ve ever used it in all of last year combined. My wall is almost full, as well.”

 

Julia hums as she spreads jam over her crumpets. Harry bites into his own and watches the fairly busy street through the coloured window. School children walking in groups changes colours from red to yellow to orange as Harry’s gaze slides over the stained glass and he wonders if the tall boy in the back of the group is a member of his school’s gymnastics. He wonders if he has enough talent to make it into the national team and if his parents would give him that chance, unlike—

 

“…are they?”

 

Harry startles and blinks up at Julia. “Sorry?” He sits up straight and puts down his crumpet. The crumbs fall into the napkin across his lap and the tea in his cup sloshes slightly when his hand trembles just a little. “I apologize, Julia. Must have had my head in the clouds; could you repeat that please?”

 

“I said,” Julia’s eyebrows slant in a worried frown, her hands wrapped around her own cup as she peers at him. “What kind of flowers are they? The new ones that you mentioned.”

 

Harry ducks his head and begins to recite the flowers in the order that they appeared with his postcards. He can feel Julia’s eyes boring into his forehead as he taps his finger on the rim of his tea cup and the digit falls along the curve of the ware to trace the embossed silhouette of the crown prince.

 

The first azalea was followed by the usual stargazers until one day in the middle of October, a pink carnation appears with a postcard from India and less than three weeks from then on, he finds a stem of bright purple sweetpea taped to a postcard from Eurasia Georgia. The following postcards continued the tradition of stargazers up until last week where he received an oxeye daisy with a postcard from Borneo.

 

The sound of chattering and dogs barking fills the silence Julia’s flower shop when he finishes. Harry sits back in the rattan chair and laces his fingers together, frowning when he instinctively tries to fiddle with a ring that does not exist on his right pinky. Almost immediately, he hears a voice resonating in his mind and its tone is surprised, disbelieving almost.

 

_That. **Is sick**._

 

 

 As always, Harry forces himself to ignore the familiar ache in his chest.

 

“I miss you,” Harry cocks his head and his eyebrows climb high to his hairline. Julia looks steadily back at him, her Irish lilt trailing behind the declaration. “Take care of yourself for me, I’ll never forget you, I’m grateful to you, please be patient.”

 

And Harry gets it.

 

“That’s what they all mean?” Harry’s mouth is dry and he takes a shaky sip of his tea. “All this time, that’s what they all mean?”

 

Julia nods and sags in her chair. Her grey eyes regard him with something akin to sympathy and concern. “If whoever is doing this is aware of the meaning of those flowers, then yes, Harry.” She leans to pat his hand reassuringly. “That’s what they all mean. And you’ll notice of course, that whoever they are, they miss you something fierce if the sheer number of stargazers is any indication.”

 

The ache in Harry’s chest tenfolds to intense pain and the feeling of incompleteness manifests into the feeling of complete and utter loss. It feels to him, at that point of time, as though he has lost sight of everything all over again. It feels like the first moment he woke up in a strange hospital where he remembers nothing but his name and the fear of loud noises and the feel of slickness on his hands and the coppery tang of blood in his mouth. It feels like the first time he steps foot in Canterbury with nothing but a lease and an impressive account to his name, but an entire history wiped forever from his mind. He knows nothing, he knows no one, and all he has are dreams of churches and of red rooms and bright golden hair.

 

He feels the control slip from between his fingers like sand and he _fears._

 

 

Harry is being haunted by ghost of a past that he no longer remembers and what he would not give to confront this ghost. To ask this ghost to give his memory back, to help him be who is meant to be, to return to the person he once was, to ask this ghost to just open the fucking oak doors in his mind so he can rush in and apologize on bended knees to the person who has been waiting for as long as he has.

 

But outwardly, all that Harry makes sure Julia sees is a quietly amused smile on his lips and a noncommittal shrug of his shoulders like none of it matters.

 

Julia does not believe him, he knows.

 

* * *

 

Harry spends Valentine’s day sketching.

 

His shop is closed this day, as most shops are around the world. The day of love is now the day of mourning for a good portion of the world populous and frankly speaking, Harry is feeling too poorly to have to deal with his patrons. And so he sits himself his wingback arm chair by the large display window of his shop with a sketch pad in his lap and charcoal between his fingers.

 

His sketches are never one of scenery or people.

 

They are always bits and pieces of a larger picture, fragmented from its original muse. He sketches a pair of hands with long fingers holding onto a sleek iPad. He sketches the back of a woman’s head, her pony tail neat and high, the tail end of her hair brushing the collar of her shirt. His hand dances and he sketches a Yorkshire terrier’s sweet furry face with its tongue out. Underneath that he adds a sketch of a pug with beady watery eyes that stare at him with unreserved curiosity. In between the pages and pages of mundane sketches of umbrellas, suit jackets, and butterflies, there are the precious ones that Harry wishes he could complete.

 

Those ones are sketches of a person’s face.

 

There are sketches of a pair of eyes closed, the lashes long and fluttery as Harry adds in the shadows that they would cast on the owner’s cheeks. There are also sketches of half a face from the chin down, the smile wide and enthusiastic, their neck an elegant length that disappeared beneath the collars of a polo. Harry adds a mole just underneath the chin, a little ways before the throat.

 

Charcoal would stain his hands as he continues to labour over the artwork, pages flipping throughout the hours of the day. His tea is untouched by his feet; the tea pot and cup set remains on their silver tray with the accompanying little jug of milk and sugar pot. The silver tray glints in the light that pours through the window and the jagged rays take Harry to another place and time where he squints his eyes through darkened glasses to observe a group of individuals running laps on a green English estate. He feels the roughness of the stone staircase under his palms and the gentle warmth of the sun on his back as he stands outside a mansion. His arm moves on its own and he finds himself waving at a figure in the distance who waves back.

 

Harry closes his eyes and stills his hand. The charcoal digs into his fingers as he struggles to control his breathing and the oncoming familiar ache in his chest. He finds it difficult to swallow and the overall feeling is similar to drowning. The blasted doors are rattling again in his mind and it shoots tendrils of pain that begins from the scar on his temple. This time he finds his consciousness slamming at the door with his shoulder, the movement becoming more and more desperate as a voice raise from the recess of his mind.

 

The voice is screaming in his ears and Harry doubles over in his armchair.

 

There is a crack, a miniscule sliver of a thing between the doors and Harry daringly peers through them. Like a bullet, he receives an onslaught of terrible images. Images a woman whose pinched face is frightened as a gun is levelled at her, the face of a man whose neck is stabbed with a pole and another man whose head is blown away by a gunshot. There is a whole host of angry voices now, screaming and yelling and cursing and Harry –for once- regrets forcing the doors open.

 

_I’ll do everything I can to fix it._

 

The words eclipsed the massacre in his mind. Everything falls silent and the doors are once again settled as a cold barrier.

 

Harry sighs heavily, his hands clench and unclench in his lap. The charcoal is broken and smeared all over the page, ruining the beginnings of a man’s back. Minor details of a horrendous jacket barely make it through the dark smudges left by his distress, but Harry does not care. For the first time since he returned from the hospital with his head fucked and his heart heavy, he realizes that he recognizes that voice and that –possibly- it is the voice of the person waiting behind those doors.

 

A timid knock on the shop’s door brings Harry back to the present and he takes a moment to gather himself. He is dressed in his black button down and oxblood red sweater today, paired with dark grey trousers and his customary Oxfords, and the dark ensemble serves him well to hide the charcoal stains.

 

Harry freezes when he opens the door wide enough to see the little street he lives on. Out on the doorsteps of his shop, sits a basket filled with an explosion of familiar deep reds, white, yellows, and pinks. He stares at the basket of flowers before a sense of urgency takes him, pushing him to run out into the streets. His gaze roams frantically from one side to the other and from one corner to another hidden corner. The clear skies above him are bright and it makes his head spin as he searches the unfamiliar faces for one that he knows. 

 

But there is no one like that on his street.

 

Harry shakes his head ruefully and keeps it up as he walks back to the front of his shop. Pedestrians stare at him, but his face is politely passive as he nods at the ones that catch his eye. He watches in satisfaction when the onlookers flush in embarrassment instead and he picks up the basket on his way back into the solitude of his antique tea cups and tablewares.

 

He places the basket on his desk and examines the array of flowers. There is no postcard this time, but he supposes that the wealth of flora that’s steadily perfuming his little nook more than made up for it. With a tendril of longing for someone he doesn’t even know, he recognizes the stargazers that made up most of the entire arrangement. There are no more than three stalks of yellow tulips tucked between the red lilies with a spattering of tiny white flowers that Harry knows to be baby’s breath. There is, however, a cluster of star-shaped white flowers with linear leaves set in the middle of the arrangement as an obvious centre piece.

 

Harry can just hear the words that Julia spoke to him that one afternoon a month ago. He caresses one of the stargazers thoughtfully, _“I miss you,”_ and he moves on to the pink azalea just as reverently, _“Take care of yourself for me.”_

 

There is no one to hear it and he doesn’t even know to whom he’s speaking the words to, but he whispers them nonetheless.

 

“I miss you too; take care of yourself as well.”

 

* * *

 

Later that night he learns that the centre piece is called Star-of-Bethlehem. He also learns, with that blasted ache in his chest, that it means atonement. The tulips are meant to declare a hopeless love whilst the baby’s breath brings the meaning of innocence. The breath is knocked out of him as he realizes that this person knows him from before. This person knows who he was and probably what he had done this day three years ago.

 

And yet.

 

Baby’s breath and Star of Bethlehem.

 

Yellow tulips and stargazers.

 

Those bloody azaleas.

 

He wonders, if perhaps, it is possible that the person behind the oak doors have forgiven him of his transgressions all along.

 

* * *

 

In the summer of 2018 Harry –quite literally- runs into a young woman as he is leaving the bakery. The smell of fresh baked goods are heady and tantalising in the heavy summer air, with its humid breeze and the heat of the early morning sun that bounces off the cobbled side walk. The streets are nearly bare of motor vehicles and are filled with cyclists.

 

The light fabric of his linen shirt and trousers flutter in the summer air. The crisp brown paper bag of pastries and bread in his arms wrinkles as he presses them closer to his chest to better catch a whiff of the aroma. He barely makes it through the bright yellow doors when a body collides with his own and he nearly staggers back with the force.

 

His right hand shoots out automatically to hold the other body steady whilst the left keeps a firm grip on the brown bag. The arm that he has his right hand wrapped around is slender but he can feel the sinewy muscles beneath the bare skin and his mind brings him to an underground training room with mats covering the floor. There are other people around him and they are all throwing each other onto the mats, their faces alight with grins and playful taunts. There is a woman in front of him –his sparring partner- and she has her blond hair in a secure pony tail, her sharp cheekbones rosy with exertion. Her tank top is soaked with sweat and the name _Catherine_ is embroidered under a strange logo on the left side of her black tank.

 

_Don’t hold back on me now, Harry. You know I can kick your Eton arse from here to Manchester, field operatives or not—_ though not Cat, not Catherine at all its – its more- something familiar, something from a book that he had read once before in school. Something like Agravai—

 

“Oh my God, I’m so so sorry,” Harry comes back to the smell of sticky sweet Danish pastries and the fresh scent of a woman’s perfume. “I wasn’t looking where I was going and it’s my fault, really. Are you alright?”

 

Harry releases the arm he is holding and takes a step back to examine the young woman. She is a vision of delicate pink summer frock and honey coloured hair with bright whiskey eyes behind tortoise-shell frames, healthy rosy tints on her cheeks and plush lips that smiles nervously up at him. She strikes him as someone familiar and he wonders if she has an uncle that he might have been friends with once.

 

“It’s quite alright, quite alright.” He waves off her apology with a smile and a slight bow. “No harm done.”

 

The young woman sighs in relieve and her nervous smile transforms into something sad, something almost sympathetic. For the tiniest fraction of a second Harry feels as though she is examining him by the way her eyes roam all over him. The thought that she is –for the lack of better terms- checking him out is dismissed as sudden as it appeared. This feels different from that. This feels like she is drinking in the sight of him, like she is cataloguing how he looks and is trying to discern how well he is living his life.

 

It feels odd, but he feels as though she is drinking in the sight of him for someone else who could not be here with him.

 

“Thank goodness, then.” She smiles brightly, all teeth and brilliant glow of youth. “Would have been a shame if I accidentally knocked those off.” She nods at the brown bag. “They smell lovely.”

 

Harry feels an unexpected burst of fondness at the sight of the young woman in her charming summer frock with the sun lighting her honey coloured hair like a soft halo. His hand moves to fish out a warm puff pastry, neatly wrapped in parchment paper and offers it to the startled young woman.

 

“Oh no, no I couldn’t possibly-“ She protests weakly, her small hand pressing lightly against his.

 

“Nonsense,” Harry scoffs, the warmth of the pastry now passed in another’s hand. “You haven’t lived until you’ve sampled some of the local’s best pastries.”

 

He watches her cock her head slightly, her eyes regarding him with the same cataloguing look as before. There is fondness and respect as well in those pensive eyes, he realizes. But the pleasantness is tainted once again with that hint of sorrow and sympathy that Harry finds himself to be nervous about. Their eye contact is broken when the young woman shifts her eyes to the side and then to the pastry in his hand. He makes out a small, imperceptible nod before she smiles once more at him.

 

“Thank you, sir.” She takes the pastry from his hand and their fingers brush. “I’m glad I ran into you.”

 

She side steps him and walks away before he could even form the words to protest her using the word sir.

 

* * *

 

It is later when he is emptying his pockets into a ceramic bowl on his dresser that he finds it.

 

The medal is brand new, shiny, and small. It’s baby pink ribbon is soft and supple to the touch as Harry scrutinizes its odd shape that seem to look like an inverted K set in a circle. He walks to his bed and sits down, the medal still fiddled in between his curios fingers.

 

It feels like a key of sorts.

 

There is nothing that Harry can explain, but for the life of him, he feels like this medal –wherever it came from- is a key and that if he could just figure out what it truly is, he would be able to recover what he lost all those years ago. He feels the door rattling again in his mind and this time he waits. He waits and observe as the golden handle shakes from the inside and his breath quickens at the prospect that perhaps the one waiting on the other side will open it for him.

 

They did not, of course. The door falls silent, cold and unmoving as ever.

 

But he thinks of a snowglobe and a boy sitting on the floor surrounded with more snowglobes and he knows that if he flips the medal over he would find an engraving of sorts. Sure enough, there at the back of the medal, engraved in the gold material as he knew it would be, are a set of numbers.

 

He cannot for the life of him understand their meaning, nor figure out why the feeling of incompleteness that aches in his chest is somehow –now- paired up with a sense of dread and grief

 

* * *

 

There is something to be said about feeling a keening sense of loss when you have no idea whatsoever what is it that you have lost. The void is just there, an encompassing presence that sucks you in and spits you out, strips you of your emotions and empties your soul.

 

Harry learns this in the following months.

 

The flowers in the basket are now withered and dry, the petals browned and fragile in the breeze that comes through his bedroom window. Every morning as he eats his breakfast, he stares at the little weaved thing with its tawny colours and its dying cargo. The stargazers are nearing the colour of copper, the same as the azalea. The star of Bethlehem droops, its petals having long been lost amongst the bed of lilies. Yellow tulips are darkened to burnt orange now and the weight of its bud pulls it down to brush the side of the basket whilst the baby’s breath remains to be the only one to have dried and but maintain its colour.

 

The wall of postcards downstairs is halted at the count of fifty two cards, the last one being a card from Egypt that he received a week before his run in with the pretty young lady in pink. The flower that it came with is the usual stargazer and that one is safely tucked away in phonebook number six on his shelf.

 

Harry barely sleeps, now.

 

He barely manages to pass the stage of dozing off before he is jerked away by the sound of static in his ears and sometimes the high note of a transmission that triggers a bout of cold sweats. Whenever he does fall asleep, and how preciously rare they seem to be, Harry is haunted by the hollows of a desecrated church. There are ghosts in the church that chases him all over his dreamscape, and it pans from a military bunker, to a tailor’s shop, to his childhood home even.

 

The merry chase always ends in a pub somewhere he does not recognize and the ghosts would then leave him alone when he collapses in a booth, breaths coming in heavy pants. There would be a hand covering his shaking one. The hand is rough by callous from handling firearms –though how he knows, he has no idea- and there is a familiar watch wrapped around the wrist.

 

The dream always ends the same.

 

Harry would look up, up the length of an arm in a familiar dark pinstripe suit and he would take in the blue tie with red accent stripes, the tie pin, the clean white shirt and when he almost sees him, almost captures the face that he longs for-

 

There is blood on the table between them, down his front, in his hands, and the man collapses.

 

A smoking gun is in his hand and he wakes up with a gasp, his right hand clutching the medal in a death grip.

 

* * *

 

In the late autumn of 2018, Harry begins to see an apparition everywhere he goes.

 

The first time he sees the apparition is through Julia’s window. He sits in his usual rattan chair with Julia’s favourite teacup held delicately in his hand as he listens to the Irishwoman chatter. His eyes alternate in focusing on Julia’s hands as they deftly remove the thorns off roses and to the view outside.

 

The autumn sky is dim and nearly all the shops have begun to plaster their large windows with orange and black decorative cut-outs. Pumpkins are set out by the shops’ doors and children are pushing each other playfully, their uniforms bright and fluttering behind them as the wind blows. A few of the boys break free from their group as they kick a football around, clumsily manoeuvring through the thankfully thin crowd.

 

Julia tuts when the screaming laughter of the children floats into the flower shop, temporarily cutting her off her tirade. Harry shoots her an amused smile and looks back to the children, rim of the teacup pressed to his lips.

 

He freezes.

 

The school boys are passing their ball around and they are joined by a man wearing a light grey suit, perfectly tailored, judging by the cut of the trousers. His back is turned from Julia’s shop, but Harry can still see the tail of a black scarf that flies wildly from around the man’s neck; his ridiculous navy puffa billowing around his waist as he nimbly jumps and dances around the children with the ball shifting from foot to foot. His blond hair -so deep in colour they might as well be burnished gold- barely jostles despite his vigorous movements as he passes the ball back to one of the lads.

 

Harry looks away just as the man turns around.

 

* * *

 

Harry sees him everywhere.

 

The man with the burnish blond hair is everywhere that Harry goes, it seems. He sees him walking amongst the crowd as he does his weekly shopping at the farmer’s market. Perfect crème coloured skin contrasts beautifully with his dark suits and ridiculous navy puffa with the ever present scarf around his neck that trails almost too long as he walks away from Harry. His back is all that Harry sees each time and he feels as though it is sign, like he isn’t meant to see the man’s face at all.

 

Harry sees him when he leaves the bakery with his purchase hugged closely to his front. He sees him in a flurry of jeans and leather jacket as the man whips pass him, a phone pressed to his ears. All that Harry sees clearly is the burnished gold of his hair and the length of his neck when the man cradles the mobile between his shoulder and ear. Like a flash, he is gone and Harry is left standing on the steps of the bakery, his gloved hands clenched in the folds of the bakery’s paper bag.

 

He sees him through his bedroom window one morning as he sips his tea, his hand shaking and his heart pounding from his dreams. There is an imprint of the inverted K in his left hand from where he had gripped the medal before he fell asleep and it burns hotter than any brand ever would. Harry is contemplating the numbers on the back of the medal when he casts a glance out his closed window and sees the man. Blond head is bent over a book as he lounges in front of a café across the street, a great-fitting over coat draping casually over a button down shirt.

 

Harry looks away and abandons his teacup on the window seat.

 

Harry sees him when he walks around the canal one Saturday with his sketch book tucked securely under one arm and his tin of charcoal hidden in the pocket of his coat. He sees him standing by the canal, feeding the ducks and he is dressed in well cut jeans and a long black heavy trench coat, opened at the collar to reveal a jumper beneath. His head is tilted a little to the other side, as though speaking to a Bluetooth device and Harry drinks in the sight of thick fluttery lashes, gently sloping nose and thin rosy lips. The jawline is elegant as it transitions to a neck that disappears beneath the high collar of his trench coat.

 

The man –quite suddenly- whips around and their eyes meet.

 

First thing that Harry realizes is that the eyes are moss green and bright, beautifully framed by dark lashes, the black spectacles that he wears do not diminish the colours even a little bit. The second thing that Harry realizes is that the man looks just as surprised as he is and perhaps a little bit frightened as he takes a step back.

 

He knows this man.

 

He does not only recognize this man, he _knows_ him. Harry knows the way he laughs and the way he would smile cheekily at Harry. He knows the way this man say his name, all rough cockney accent and confidence. Harry knows him more than Harry knows himself but none of that matter because Harry does not remember his name.

 

That, and the fact that the man –no matter how real he looks- must be another figment of Harry’s imagination. He must be, for this man had appeared in Harry’s dreams for far too often to be real.

 

So Harry squares his shoulder, holds his head high, and walks confidently pass the apparition of his dreams. He resolutely ignores the way moss coloured eyes follow him as he disappears around the corner and out of sight.

 

He is not real.

-

Harry does not see the man anymore, after that day.

\--

* * *

 

It is fortnight to Christmas of 2018 and the fairy lights that hangs from the windows of every shop on Harry’s street casts a dim yellow glow across his bedroom floor when he wakes up in the middle of the night with a gasp. His hand darts quickly under his pillow and he pulls out the medal, the softness of the ribbon contrasts with the hardness of the gold.

 

Harry curls in his bed and flips the medal around, his mouth whispering the numbers on the back. There is something in the back of his mind that tells him it is important, that the numbers mean something. His scar throbs dully and the ache is back in his chest as he brings the medal closer to examine the craftsmanship in the dim light.

 

He knows that this is a medal of valour and that for some reason, the fact that it is nearing Christmas makes it all the more important for him to understand the importance of this mysterious token. There is no doubt in Harry’s mind that the young lady from so long ago had slipped this in his pocket when she stumbled into him and strangely enough, he is more proud and amused than he is concerned or angry.

 

But the way she _looked_ at him.

 

It jars something within and it brings the acute feeling of profound grief.

 

Harry’s hand moved before he even realizes it and he sits up against his pillow with his mobile in hand. He does not think when his thumb fly across the touch screen and dials the numbers behind the medal, nor did he breathe when he puts the cool plastic to his ear and he waits for the line to pick up.

 

When it does, it is the cold, clipped tone of a telemarketer.

 

“Customer service, how may we be of assistance?”

 

His tongue seems to be stuck to the roof his mouth and he cards a hand through his hair. The doors are rattling again and this time there is an almost violent pounding from the other side. His consciousness plasters itself against the wood and his palms beat against the rich brown wood. There, the voice that he recognizes from his dreams and fragments of memories, reaches his ears through the wood and it tells him to say the words- to say the three words that means more than _I love you_ or _I miss you-_ he must say the words or will not work.

 

“I’m afraid I must have dialled the wrong number.” Harry breathes into the mouthpiece.

 

The telemarketer bids him goodbye and silence that remains –both in his room and his mind- feels terribly like disappointment.

 

* * *

 

It becomes a ritual.

 

For every night that Harry wakes up with a gasp and a name on the tip of his tongue, he will dial the number and the same interactions will be exchanged between him and the telemarketer. The numbers that are now burnt in his mind grates on his nerves and shoots tendrils of worry through his entire being.

 

They _mean_ something.

 

Harry suspects that they make up a date, and the meaning behind the date is one that he would rather not entertain if he wants to keep whatever is left of his fragile grip on reality. He should be worried by the way that he moves through the day like clockwork, his mind and heart barely putting stock in what he does.

 

He sells his vintage little teacups and teapots, he accepts consignments from his suppliers, he sketches, he takes tea with Julia, he puts on his suits and his ties, he polishes his cufflinks, he walks to parks and to the bakery, he sits on benches by the canal.

 

But nothing feels quite right to him anymore.

 

Granted, they never did settle with him before. It is like there are other things that he ought to be doing and in his crazier moments, he feels that the flashes of –memories?- _things_ are what he is meant to do. When he holds his umbrella, his hand twitches around the knob that would open the canopy; when he ties his watch around his wrist, he is unreasonably careful with the adjustment button on the side of its golden face; when he holds a teacup delicately in the palm of his hand as he admires the painted scenery, he longs for the sturdy and reassuring weight of a gun instead.

 

His life in Canterbury is now without strange flowers and vintage postcards left on his shop door. The wall of postcards behind his desk remains unchanged in numbers and the pressed flowers that he keeps in all of his six phonebooks remain untouched. Harry no longer looks at the basket of wilted, dead flowers that sits on his windowsill

 

For the first time since he build his life here, Harry Hart admits to himself that he is, perhaps, a little bit lonely.

 

* * *

 

On the night of New Year’s Eve 2018, Harry stands in front of his oak table down in the shop with a tumbler of brandy in one hand while the other presses flat on the surface of the wood. His eyes trace a careful trail from one postcard to another, from the first postcard that he received to the very last. They are arranged carefully in rows of five, neatly spaced and they fill almost the entire wood panelled wall.

 

The faded ink of the vintage cards makes them all the more charming. Everyone of his customers are just as impressed as the previous ones and many of them have given him food for thought. _Nostalgic_ , as one customer once mentioned to him as he wraps up her 1890s Victorian tea set. _Almost as though they are a symbol of remembrance_ , says another customer whose purchase was a 1960s tea pot.

 

The last comment is the reason that he now stands in the coldness of his shop on New Year’s Eve, contemplating a wall of postcards given to him by someone he has never met before. A more practical man than he would have been worried after the first one arrives on his door steps three years ago. A more reasonable man than he would have reported the incident after the second one arrives less than a month from the first one. Neither kinds of men would have kept the postcards and the flowers, let alone put the former on their shop’s wall and the latter in a phonebook to preserve them.

 

“A symbol of remembrance.” Harry murmurs contemplatively as he sips his brandy. Revellers’ laughter and chatter floats into the hollows of the shop and it echoes in Harry’s mind where he finds himself suddenly standing in the middle of a square, surrounded by a crowd counting down to the new year. The count down hits zero and there are fireworks in the skies within his mind, shouts of _[Šťastný nový rok!](http://mp3juices.se/media/%C5%A0%C5%A5astn%C3%BD%20nov%C3%BD%20rok!/mid/http%253A%252F%252Fwww.myczechrepublic.com%252Fsounds%252Fczech%252Fnewsletter%252Fnovyrok.mp3/el/1)_ _Šťastný 2000!_ are overwhelming his senses, but there is a voice whispering in his ears to watch out for the target.

 

Harry pulls himself back to reality and takes another healthy gulp of brandy before he leans heavily against the table with his shoulders hunched and the steady familiar throb in his head and heart. He takes a deep shuddering breath, holds it in for a few seconds and slumps a little further as he released it. The tumbler of brandy is pushed aside as he walks around the table and begins to pull down the postcards one by one with trembling hands.

 

He barely makes past card number fifteen before he closes his eyes and rests his forehead against the wall. The coolness of the wood brings him down from his haze and he feels around for the familiar door, begging for an instruction of some sort. His consciousness is desperate as he whispers through the cracks for answers but getting only silence in return. Harry forces his consciousness into a semblance of respect, shakes himself out of his stupor and straightens.

 

His hands are steady as he methodically replaces the postcards back into place, reminding himself to properly change the sticky tack in the morning. Harry traces the edge of each postcard that he puts on the wall, savouring the frayed edges and the little hint of musky smell of old paper that wafts from them. Each one is examined again with keen eyes as though it is the first time and Harry recalls with clarity the flowers that they come with.

 

[Egypt](https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4087/4972308480_75ac3ebd8f.jpg) gives Harry pause.

 

He takes a step backward and sits on his stool without looking, his eyes focused on the black and white card of the Sphinx and pyramid. Harry brings the card closer to his face, hastily taking off his black frames to better focus on the image. There, hidden amongst the dark grey tone and under the shadows of the pyramid of Giza, are a set of three words written in barely visible pencil lead.

 

Harry squints harder as his heartbeat picks up.

 

“Oxfords..not brogues.”

 

* * *

 

The words are a constant presence and it occupies his mind in a little niche between the numbers from the medal and the colour of his apparition’s eyes. It comes out at him as he cleans his teacups and takes his walks about town. It calls out to him when he puts on his own Oxfords and it takes all of Harry’s self control to not sit down with his head in his hands and just force himself to remember. He has been here before; this forcing to remember business. He tried it more times than he can count since the day he came to his senses and for a good portion of his first year in this quaint English town.

 

They always end the same way: with him curled up in a foetal position on whatever surface he chooses to collapse on, his head feeling as though it would explode –as though it _should-_ , his breathing ragged and his chest burning awfully with that crippling sense of incompleteness and failure.

 

And so Harry chooses not to force it, to allow it to come naturally despite his misgivings. There was a brief period of few months in 2016 that Harry dedicated to obsessing over the human memories and what he learns are disconcerting and perhaps the reasons why he stopped trying.

 

But still he frets.

 

He frets over these flashes and the things that those blasted doors feed him in scraps. Harry is no fool. He knows that the mind fills in blank memory spaces with imaginations and if the person is desperate enough, the imagination will seem so real, so detailed that it could not be anything but an actual memory.

 

And desperation is not something that Harry is short of.

 

Julia, of course, fusses and frets over him constantly. She brings him tea and biscuits in the evening with little bouquets of flowers that Harry would put in a vase up on his apartment’s mantelpiece. His neighbour would then marvel over his postcards display and asks about them whilst he answers to the best of his abilities, all the while battling away the thought of _why have they stopped_.

 

“Adam wrote to me.” Julia whispers one evening, nearing the end of January “It’s been so long, Harry. So, terribly long that I’ve lost all hope that he might-“

 

Harry shifts in his stool and reach out to gently presses his hand over Julia’s, the heat from her teacup seeping through his skin. He watches the shifts of emotions play out on her face and threads their fingers together when he sees how dangerously close her grip is to breaking the delicate china of the cup’s handle. “But he did,” Harry rumbles, voice low and reassuring. “It must mean that he’s getting better.”

 

“It’s not that, Harry. I don’t give a whit about that at all, I just-“ the distraught woman takes a great shuddering breath, steadying herself as Harry scrapes his stool closer to hers around his table. “I spent every day of my life since that day, thinking that I’ve lost both my husband and my son. My lad murdered my husband and he left. He _left_ the moment I turned my back to look at my Terrence’s body. Harry, I had my back turned for a second in that hospital, I swear it, just for a _second_ and-“

 

There is a thousand different things that Harry could have said right then, but he keeps his silence as he pulls Julia closer to his side. Their teacups are pushed carefully to the side amidst the biscuits and all six of Harry’s phonebooks, their pages fluttering in the draft of the shop with petals of preserved flowers peeking through.

 

“—I thought he’d died out there. I’ve stayed up nights and nights thinking of how my lad could have killed himself in guilt for having murdered his da and for three years I’ve been preparing myself for that phone call, but then he _wrote to me_ and said he’s coming home if I’d still have him as my son.” Julia laughs, the sound wet and a little bit hysterical as she presses her face into Harry’s shoulder. “Stupid boy, my darling stupid boy.”

 

“Yes, he is indeed.” Harry hums in agreement. His arms folds neatly around Julia with his chin resting on her crown. “I’m happy for you, Julia. Truly, I am.” He swallows, already feeling that constricting ache. “What does it feel like? Having someone coming back for you?”

 

“It feels wonderful,” her sigh is loud and heavy and it causes a few of the preserved stargazers to fly across the desk from their place in the phonebook. “It feels absolutely wonderful, Harry. It finally feels like everything is—“

 

_\--sort this out when I get back._

 

The door –quite unceremoniously- clicks and as natural as that, Harry Hart knows what to do.

 

* * *

 

Harry sits in his bed that night, fully clothed in his suit and Oxfords.

 

The medal is pressed to his lips as he holds his mobile in front of him, staring at the screen with the six numbers already keyed in. His thumb hovers over the green call button as he presses the medal harder against his lips, feeling the grooves of the wrought inverted K. He understands what is expected of him now, knows what the numbers truly mean and the possible identity of both his personal shade and the person who have been keeping him sane.

 

He thinks that he might even know the name of the person behind the now unlocked door.

 

And yet his thumb still hovers over the green call button, unmoving. He shifts, clenching the medal in his fist and pressing it against his forehead, his head bowed. It seem to him that if there is anything more frightening than not remembering who you were before, is the knowledge that you have a way to possibly recover all of those memories back for better or for worse. He thinks of his life here, now, as it is. The calmness of the town he lives in, the comforting routine that he has made for himself and all the friends that he has.

 

He is, in essence, exchanging one life for another.

 

He looks at the medal in his fist one more time and he sees himself crouching in front of a young boy, dangling an identical medal in front of him. He hears himself telling the boy to call the number at the back of the medal and to say the three words that would get him out of trouble like _a favour of sorts._

 

 

The doors do not rattle this time. Instead, it waits patiently for Harry to push the handle down and enter the room beyond. He hears shuffling from behind the wood and he sighs. He wants so many things, but those things that he wants are also things that fears. He is frightened to know the person that he was before all this.

 

But there is a promise that he made, a promise that he would come back to fix things. And a gentleman keeps his words, always.

 

* * *

 

“ _Customer service, how may we be of assistance?”_

_“Oxfords not brogues.”_

_“...your complaint is duly noted and we hope that we have not lost you as a valuable customer.”_

 

* * *

 

Julia’s Adam returns to her on an unremarkable February afternoon and Harry can hear her laughing through her tears from where he sits, as always, behind his table as he does his accounts. Harry pauses to caress the medal that he keeps in his trouser’s pocket, thinking perhaps he had made a mistake. Perhaps his mind really did trick him with false memories that he has been so careful to avoid.

 

It does not help that he now have a new demon to deal with in the dark lonely nights. He feels torn, now. It feels to him as though there is another person occupying his consciousness and this person is slowly, but surely stripping him of who he is now. The new consciousness is peeling him of his life as a simple shopkeeper with love for vintage teacups who teases his neighbour’s ridiculous tea sets and who has an unhealthy obsession with pastries from the local bakery. The layers are being slowly replaced with new ones – old ones?- that fits like a supple leather glove, well worn and well loved.

 

Harry still sees things in bits and pieces, standing still in front of the unlocked doors. But  now he is able to string bits of images together to make an entire storyboard and he takes comfort in the names that slowly trickle back, ready to be attached to the faces that haunts him. All the while, the unlocked door teases him with the wealth of memories it hides beyond. No voice calls out to him, though. It seems to Harry that the person on the other side is content in letting Harry move in his own pace, waiting to greet him whenever he is ready to face his past.

 

It excites Harry From Before, but it scares Harry The Shopkeeper.

 

* * *

 

A week before Valentine’s Day, Harry wakes to make his tea in the amber light of dawn as always. It takes him a while before he realizes that the teaspoon of sugar did not stop at two, but it stops at three with a splash of milk from the fridge. The new brew tastes like an old favourite, as though he has always made his tea like that and not like he’s been doing for the past four years.

 

That day, he selects an old dark charcoal pinstripe suit from the back of his closet, his hands reaching as naturally as breathing for the ensemble. He puts on the garments carefully and meticulously, putting the cufflinks through the cuffs and tugging them to contrast with the dark outer layer. A silk blue tie with red accents is picked out from his tie drawer before he expertly knots it around his neck, already thinking of a white pocket square to complete the suit.

 

He next laces up his Oxfords and he is careful not to click his heels together when he examines the black shoes, shined so vigorously they look almost lacquered. Harry opens a drawer on his dresser and pulls out a spectacles’ case, replacing his usual rectangle black frames with a squarish tortoiseshell frame that sits better on his face than its predecessor ever could.

 

Harry stands in front of the full length mirror and for the first time in a while, he does not feel naked in his suit.

 

* * *

 

On Valentine’s Day 2019, Harry settles himself in his window seat with his sketchbook once again in his lap and a piece of charcoal in between his thumb and forefinger. The rain beats against the window pane as he sketches a mansion with its many windows and brick details, the great stone staircase that splits down and leads to gravel before it melts into fields of grass.

 

A flip of a page and he begins to sketch the man who bought his 1950s E. Wedgewood, dressed in a sweater with patches on top of the shoulder blades. Harry adds a clipboard in the man’s hand and he sketches in a frown between the eyebrows, imagining him to be snapping at someone for touching his belongings. A name plays on the tip of his tongue and Harry allows his finger to move to spell the six letters by the sketch’s elbow.

 

He smiles wistfully.

 

Another flip of the page and he starts with a clean posture outline, working from there to complete the image of a gentleman wearing a bespoke suit much like his favoured pinstripe. The man stands casually, his hips cocked to the side with both hands in his trousers pocket. On a whim, Harry forgoes a pair of Oxfords for a pair of garish Nike with wings on the side, chuckling at the contrast between classic and modern. He graces the face with a close lipped smile that stretches so wide it makes the man’s eyes squint and wrinkles appear at the corners.

 

Harry draws a cap instead of a neatly parted hair as a finishing touch to the hybrid of class and street before he sets his charcoal aside. He holds the sketchbook in front of him and lets the sound of the rain hitting the streets and his window pane wash over him. A name that he has recently relearned escapes through his lips and it echoes in the warm apartment, disappearing into the walls.

 

The sound of bells alerts Harry.

 

He frowns at the clock on his mantelpiece that reads five in the evening and wonders if Julia has decided to make good on her promise of dragging him for dinner with Adam and her in their home. The sketchbook is abandoned on the coffee table as he makes his way to his apartment door and he takes the steps two at a time as the bells ring once more.

 

The shop is dark as Harry quickly navigates his way to the door, keys in hand. Harry easily picks through the flat little metals and pulls out the correct one, sliding it into the doorknob and easing the bolt-lock from its latch. He steels himself for a refusal and an apology, the words already forming in his mouth when he pulls the door open.

 

Harry Hart very nearly collapsed in his doorway at the sight before him.

 

His apparition stands on the steps of his shop wearing a thick black oversized raincoat that falls past his knees. He stands with both his hands holding up a great bouquet of blue forget-me-nots dotted with white and yellow plumeria whose scent immediately begins to tickle Harry’s nose. The blond head is bowed but the moss green eyes are apprehensive as they peek over the bouquet, waiting for Harry to respond.

 

Harry’s eyes remain in contact with his apparition’s as the bouquet is lowered to reveal the entirety of a –finally- familiar face. Pink tongue darts to wet thin lips and the apparition shifts from foot to foot, the discomfort visible in the tightness of his eyes. Harry waits with baited breath for him to speak, wanting to make sure that this is real, that this is not another figment of his imagination. The Harry From Before that have been slowly gaining purchase wants to reach out and touch this person, knowing that he owes him everything and anything to make up for how he left this man in front of him. But what little that is left of Harry the Shopkeeper is wary due to having spent nearly four years in confusion and living off scraps of images that he could not even be sure of as memories or desperate imaginations.

 

“I aint got no postcard this time either, sorry.” Harry’s breath catches, his eyes drinking in the sight –the very real sight- of this man whose hands gripped tighter around the stems of the bouquet. “They’re forget-me-nots and plumeria, by the way. I wanted to get yous some roses but then I was thinkin’ that maybe that’s a bit cliché, yeah? And they don’t bring the right meaning besides.” The man rattles on, his hands twisting and nearly fraying the delicate green stems that are tied together by strings of straws.

 

“They mean memories, the forget-me –nots. Not a big shocker there,” he grins nervously up at Harry. “And then the plumeria are for new beginnings and such. Because we’ve been waiting on you, right. _I’ve_ been waiting on you for a fucking long time, spent so long forcing meself to leave you alone because you can’t force something like this and I’m sorry for making you wait, too. But,” the man sets his jaw into a stubborn line and Harry could almost cry at how much he misses that. “I ain’t sorry for tryna protect you. That’s the one thing I’m not gonna apologize for.”

 

The fierce green eyes drop abruptly and they stare resolutely back at the bouquet.

 

Rain continues to fall over the awnings and it splatters droplets on the man’s shoulders while neither speaks. The pitter patter rhythm fills the silence between them and Harry’s subconscious finds himself putting a hand on the golden door handle to the double doors, slowly pushing it down and waiting for the sound of the lock coming undone.

 

“That’s mine.” Harry clears his throat, his hands shaking as they reached out to touch the man in front of him, a name that is so precious and ready on the tip of his tongue just dying to slip out. The bouquet slowly descends and it would have fallen to the ground if Harry had not grab the man’s elbows, pulling him in to cross the threshold of the life that Harry had been living. “This coat, I mean. Goodness, Eggsy I thought you knew better than to take someone’s clothing without their permission.”

 

Eggsy rips his elbows from Harry’s grip and in a shower of blue petals and yellow pollen, his protégé throws his arms around Harry. For a fraction of a second, there is no movement from him as the younger breathes with his nose pressed against Harry’s neck. It is when he feels the beginnings of hot tears against his skin that Harry brings his own arms around Eggsy, wrapping them securely around taunt torso and presses the trembling body against his.

 

The door in his mind is ajar as his breathing becomes ragged and his arms wound ever tighter around the trembling back. They stand together in the near darkness, in the middle of his shop just holding onto each other. They do not speak, they do not move. All that they could do in that moment in time, is to breathe and to hold each other up against the heavy weight of being apart for the past four years.

 

* * *

 

(In Harry’s mind, his consciousness enters the room beyond to find a dining room so familiar to him that he might as well have grown up in it. He recognizes every nook and cranny, every furniture and paintings in that room, each one of them whispering memories to him. There, in his old seat, is Eggsy who pushes back the chair as Harry walks towards him with his arms outstretch.

They meet halfway across the room and they do not let go.)

 

* * *

 

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**Author's Note:**

> Part Deux:
> 
> This Love (Came Back To Me)


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